Sunday, February 03, 2013

The President of Mexico and the Pope

The president of Mexico and the Pope are sitting under a cottonwood tree across the road from the Colorado River just outside Moab, Utah. “So Pope. What are your thoughts on that teevee program, Alien Autopsy? Was that a real alien?” “I don’t know, my son. It didn’t look Hispanic to me.” The president of Mexico looks down and softly chuckles as he makes tiny Vaticans in the sand with his finger. “Seriously, Pope. If that guy was from outer space, you must be aware of the potential. There’s bound to be more.” “It was more godless than a Democrat.” A neon school of mountain bikers whizzes past and the conversants watch in unified bewilderment. The Mexican lines out his Vaticans with a twig. Still hunched over he points it at the holy man. “You know a little something about this?” The Pope produces a small, benevolent smile. “God didn’t advise us to disregard his farthest flung flock. You never suspected who was really behind those messages to space?” The Mexican president slowly stands up, stretches and walks to the road. He gazes timelessly at the dependable river delivering its cargo of clay. The Pope leans back on his elbows to marvel at the autumn cottonwood leaves laying against the pale desert sky. “Michael Angelo, you were just a dabbler,” he muses. When the eclipse begins, the Pope rises with well oiled ease and goes to the president’s side. “Think of it. A shrine on every asteroid, shrines on the moon, on the planets, all over the stars you see at night. It will be the glory of Mexico spreading everywhere.” The president does not turn away from the river. “Every bus in Mexico has a shrine, you know. You are even in the busses. What more do you want from us?” “Do you know God has his eye on every fish in that river? That he can see each one right through the muddy water? Every time a fish is born or a bunch of eggs hatch, he knows about it. Now extend that to every river, lake or sea across the world. Do you see what I mean?” “Father, did Catholicism start in this world?” “No, my son.” A dirt encrusted pick-up grinds to a halt in front of them, blocking the Mexican’s view. “Name’s Cornelius,” says the battered Indian in the passenger seat. “You two alright?” “We’re fine,” the Pope says. “Thank you for your charity. And what happened to you, my son?” “Aw, the stupid redskin fell off a mountain last night,” the cowboy behind the wheel explains. “It’s nothing unusual.” The Pope has an idea. “I’m the Pope and this is the President of Mexico,” he says. “We’d like you to join us in a discussion.” “Oh yeah,” guffaws the cowboy, spewing terbacky juice all over the hardened terbacky juice on the dash. “I forgot. I’m Alice in Wonderland and this here is Prince Charming. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He tips his hat. “We’ll be going now.” “No, wait a minute man. That is the Pope,” says Cornelius from the retreating cloud of dust.

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